


Unwrapped

by distantstarlight



Series: 12 Lays of Christmas [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Christmas, Clothing, Developing Relationship, Friends to Lovers, Gifts, M/M, Post-Season/Series 04, Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-27
Updated: 2017-12-27
Packaged: 2019-02-22 15:04:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,468
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13169424
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/distantstarlight/pseuds/distantstarlight
Summary: John Watson only wants to help his best friend in the world, a friend he's only gotten back, a friend with whom John wants to support in whatever way Sherlock Holmes might need. His concerns lead John into making a discovery and then into making a decision.





	Unwrapped

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Custom Size Order](https://archiveofourown.org/works/945801) by [ofermod](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ofermod/pseuds/ofermod). 



It began after a case. John was living back at 221 B Baker Street once again, revelling in the ongoing danger, confusion, and general unpredictableness of it all. He still felt guilty about his daughter, but Harry and Clara were such great parents, it was hard to feel like he’d made the wrong choice by allowing his sister and her wife to raise his little girl. After Rosie’s mother passed, John had broken down completely. He didn’t know how to explain things to people to let them know his wife was gone, how she had died, he couldn’t bring _himself_ to call her by the name she’d falsely married him under, he had no legal way to explain anything unless he violated the _Official Secrets Act_ , and was essentially left adrift in an ocean of confusion. He was in no way prepared to be a father, but Harry and Clara had been extremely eager to become parents and had quite literally begged on their knees to adopt Rosie.

With great reluctance, John had agreed. It worked out beautifully, even though it made him feel adrift as well as sad sometimes. He was able to see his child as often as he wanted or leave for days, or even weeks, if it was necessary. It often was. His PTSD was worse than ever. He was back to seeing Ella Thompson on a regular basis for therapy. His job at the clinic had ended but an on-call position at Bart’s had opened up. His life was unstable but in time it would get better but it wasn’t fair to put any of that darkness on his daughter, not when there was a better alternative. With Clara and Harry, she was healthy, happy, full of smiles, and so incredibly loved that John was able to let her go with only a minimum of misgivings.

John spent a lot of time mulling over his life, trying to come to terms with the wide array of issues he’d hidden from himself. Not all of them were about himself personally, though the majority were. Some involved his problems or concerns about other people, his sister for instance. She had been the source of many of his problems as a youngster. Some were about other people and the various ways they affected John. Today, during his regular afternoon stroll, John was thinking about shoes. Not just any shoes, a very particular pair.

Once a week, John went through Sherlock’s possessions on the search for illegal narcotics. The detective had fallen prey to his addiction more than once since he’d come back from the dead, and he had ample reason to try and dull his memory and senses. John didn’t berate his friend, even though he’d found some on three different occasions. Sherlock had thanked him every time for taking them away. His addiction wasn’t something the detective had wanted ruling his life, but he was weak, sometimes caving enough to purchase if not use them, and relied heavily on John to keep him right. They were a mess, but they were a mess together. During his last search, John had happened across a rather posh looking box that was just the right size to hold all the accoutrements of Sherlock’s bad habit, so John had opened it only to find a pair of high-heeled shoes instead. They were red, the heels long and narrow, the toes closed, with great wide ribbons in matching shades to go about the ankles. They were the fanciest shoes he’d ever seen, and big.

At first, John had been filled with a weird jealous anger. It wasn’t until he realized how large the shoes were that John realized that these weren’t shoes meant for a lady, they were meant for Sherlock. _He had a pair of very large bespoke shoes just languishing on the bottom of his wardrobe, untouched_. He and Sherlock were not exactly _JohnandSherlock_ but they were on the cusp of it at long last. They’d already had one or two awkward talks, both men oddly bashful about confessing that the other was _it_ for them, and sort-of-kind-of but not exactly outright saying that they were finally together. John didn’t want to date someone who wasn’t the love of his life, and Sherlock stopped pretend-flirting for cases because of John, and in every observable way, to outsiders at least, they were a proper couple at last.

Except for _things_.

They didn’t sleep together, not even just to rest. They certainly didn’t kiss. Sometimes they sat on the sofa together but even then it wasn’t more than just sitting side by side. Holding hands wasn’t on, not yet, at least. Both men were jumpy, frazzled, and always on the edge of falling completely apart. John was in therapy but then, so was Sherlock. He was a complete wreck after everything that had happened in the last few years, and the world’s only consulting detective finally admitted that he couldn’t sort himself out without ongoing help. He was seeing Ella because she knew John and their more recent problems were intertwined, but they weren’t in couple’s therapy, not yet anyway. There were so many hurdles that they needed to overcome before they could take the next step that they’d decided that they needed to put a pin in their developing relationship, at least until at least one of them could make it through the week without screaming themselves awake at night due to nightmares, or having panic attacks at the market, or an unhappy variety of other problems that had not gone away yet. It was a bit of a bother.

Still…the shoes.

John rather liked them. He knew that Sherlock was completely capable of dressing like a lady when he needed to for a case but the presence of this style of bespoke shoes was making John think that perhaps Sherlock liked prettier clothing for wearing when he _wasn_ _’t_ working. John totally understood why Sherlock would be reluctant to pursue such a desire. He was still called a freak by many just for being intelligent and perceptive, and being called out on his less-than-common preferences would hurt him worse than being disparaged for his natural talents. John doubted that Sherlock wanted people to have even more reasons to call him names.

It made John feel a tiny bit angry that his astonishing friend had to hobble himself in so many ways.

The doctor walked and thought. _Why shouldn_ _’t Sherlock be allowed to wear pretty clothing? He was tall, slim, gorgeous, and unique. What law demanded that he always be in public wearing trousers? Why shouldn_ _’t Sherlock be allowed to walk proudly down the street in his lovely red shoes, his long shapely legs exposed and free?_

John found that he was scowling on Sherlock’s behalf. _Sherlock had practically saved Britain from becoming Moriarty_ _’s playground! He deserved to dress however he wanted without censure. He was a hero, the entire country owed him a life-debt!_ John was becoming enraged. He looked around wildly for a minute before he spotted a fine clothing store. Without even thinking about what he was doing, he marched right in and demanded service. “What can we help you find today, sir?”

The associate was smiling pleasantly at him and for a moment, John didn’t know what to say. The words tumbled out without direction, “I need to get my partner a skirt. It needs to match with shoes. Red shoes. Pointy red shoes.”

“Certainly, sir, I’m positive we can find something appropriate. Do you know their size?” John did all the laundry at 221 B Baker street and had many times examined the tags inside Sherlock’s clothes to determine if they needed to be sent out or if he could just wash them in their communal laundry room. His measurements were on the labels and John had long since memorized them. He told her. She made a quick note before asking him a nearly impossible to answer question, “What shade of red?”

John was stumped. “Er, bright? I don’t know, like cherry, maybe? Those red cherries you find on desserts, not those dark ones you get in the shops. Not that artificial red though, um, darker?”

“Blue or orange undertones?”

“What?” The associate helpfully pulled out a colour chart that had a graduated spectrum of colours. John tried to recall exactly what shade of red the shoes were, and hesitantly pointed out to a spot, “That, maybe? There were ankle thingies too, like, to wrap around in a big bow?”

John felt idiotic and wished he’d taken a picture instead of attempting to describe the shoes from memory but apparently his fashion savvy helper had all the clues she needed. “Ah yes, _Christian Louboutin, Douce Du Desert_.” John felt like an idiot for not understanding a word she was staying but she kindly explained further, “The designer who created the shoe, and the name of the actual design.” _Ah. Well. So, shoemakers didn_ _’t just say Red Shoe With Ribbony-Bit_. It made a bit of sense, he supposed.

Her name was Kiran. She gently led John toward the section of the store containing an assortment of outfits. When asked what he was looking for he shrugged helplessly, “Something to go out to dinner in?”

“How tall is your partner?”

“Six feet.”

“Ah.” Unperturbed, Kiran selected a number of items and held them up for John to look at. Taking pity on him, she selected three knee length ones -  one with a flirty hem and two others that would cling tightly to Sherlock’s legs. John thought for a second about the shoes and how long those aforementioned legs were and pointed to the more playful one. “Excellent choice, sir. She will be very happy.”

“He.”

“He’s lucky to have someone with such good taste.” Without hesitating, Kieran rang the item up, carefully folding it into tissue paper and boxing it before putting it into a large shopping bag, “Will that be all?”

“Yeah, er, what are your return policies if he hates it?” She laughed and gave him a gift receipt just in case it didn’t fit Sherlock exactly right, or if the red piping along the seams didn’t match his lovely shoes, though Kiran was pretty certain that it did. John took it home and stuck the box into Sherlock’s wardrobe beneath the box holding the shoes. John felt that Sherlock might prefer to try it on alone, no pressure, and double-checked to make sure the receipt was right on top.

It made John a bit nervous. He didn’t want to make a big deal out of things, but Sherlock would certainly think him strange for just going out and buying some skirt for him. It wasn’t even Christmas yet, though it would be soon. _Would Sherlock even understand what was going on? Would he even notice?_ Sherlock was the world’s most observant man but when it came to his own home, Sherlock seemed to be completely lost. He literally wouldn’t be able to find his own mobile if he set it down anywhere but the coffee table or the kitchen counter. John had to call him so that the great detective could deduce its location via the ringtone. Sherlock had no idea where the laundry hamper was; he put his laundry in a pile in the corner of his bedroom. He had been entirely surprised to learn that they had a linen closet, even after residing in the flat for months. It just didn’t register on his scales of important things to retain. Maybe the box would just get dusty as weeks and months drifted by. _Who knew how long Sherlock had owned those shoes? Minutes? Years?_

John made a point of surreptitiously checking Sherlock’s wardrobe whenever the genius had left the building. He felt guilty about snooping and a little silly about doing things like sticking a single strand of his own hair in between both boxes in order to measure if the boxes had been shifted or not. They never moved unless John moved them.

He couldn’t stop thinking of the shoes. His relationship with Sherlock remained frozen in the nascent stages of romance – no declarative statements, no definitive moves, no sassy flirtations – just two chaps who shared a flat with slightly more intimacy than two good friends might do. After a week or so, John went back to a different store and bought Sherlock very high-end sheer black stockings to go with the shoes. They were tiny, so he just stuck them in with the skirt. After another week, John went to a lingerie shop and spent a humiliating hour trying to explain that the garters weren’t for him, that they were a surprise for his partner, _and please please please could someone just find something that fit an 80 cm waist that was both comfortable as well as dainty so he could just leave already?_ Flushed and damp with nervous sweat, John finally left the shop with a small discreet bag clutched in his hand. He had no idea what he was doing any longer and went back to the flat to put the new garter set in with the skirt and stockings.

It was like an addiction now. John spent days browsing shops looking for a top to go with the skirt and all the rest. There were a million shops and he was losing track of which ones he wanted to back to visit again when he found it. It was sleeveless but otherwise looked a great deal like the white button-downs that Sherlock favoured. “It is particularly effective if the wearer has broader shoulders, and hangs artfully even if she’s not full-chested.” explained the clerk, “It emphasises the gracefulness of the bared arms and the fabric is deliberately cut to allow for more natural movement.”

John had no clue how to respond. It was meant to be worn untucked which would work well with the tight fitting and high waisted skirt that John had already purchased, so good enough. The top cost a fair amount, but John didn’t even flinch. He even paid extra to have it wrapped in the nicest box they had available, gently folded into acid-free tissue-paper and bagged to go. It took a day before the flat was clear, but John smuggled it in with all the rest while Sherlock was at the morgue to be shouted at by Molly for making off with her samples again.

Two days later he was listening to another clerk, “It’s called a _pashmina_.”

“A what?”

“Pashmina.”

“Say that again?”

“ _Pash-mi-na_. It’s a shawl, sort of a long kind of wide scarf your partner can wear about their shoulders instead of a jacket. If you like, we also have capes, both short and long. Do you want fur trim? Faux? Sequins? Hooded? Tall collar?”

John’s head was spinning. _No wonder women were compelled to shop so much! Every part of their body required special fittings, certain colours based on the season, the event, the time of day, a specific range of materials, awareness of current fashion trends, ethical considerations_ _…it never ended! How did women do it, and this was just clothing! What about their hair, or their makeup, or for goodness sakes, their jewellery?_ When _he_ shopped for clothing he went to the one section of the men’s store that displayed trousers in his size, picked a brown, blue, or black one, and that was it. He used the same procedure with all the rest of his things. John had not realized how deep this particular rabbit hole was when he jumped in with both feet, but he was a soldier, so he kept moving forward, “No sequins. Something discreet, delicate, needs to match with a white blouse and a black skirt and some incredibly fancy shoes called _something something_ desert, er, _Labootum_? _Something something_ I don’t recall but they were a very _particular_ shade of red and the ankle bits were wide ribbons.”

“Ah, yes, I understand.” The gently smiling assistant corrected him, “ _Louboutin._ _”_ She pronounced it elegantly.

“Yeah, sure, okay. So?” John felt as ridiculous as he ever did. _Why was he suddenly worried that Sherlock_ _’s theoretically bare shoulders might feel chilled if they went out? Why was he doing this anyway?_ “The thing?”

“Certainly, sir, allow me to show you some potential fits.” The young man reminded John of Kiran, pulling out almost a dozen different lengths of fabric. John felt anxious, but the young man was sympathetic as well as gentle with him, “What colour is the outfit?”

“Red, black, and white.” John was a bit uncomfortable. _At least the red was seasonal right now. Holiday decorations were up everywhere. Sherlock would be dazzling in all his finery. Maybe he should get Sherlock something warmer than the pashwhatever to wear when they were on the street, not that he had actually planned to take Sherlock anywhere. Why was he doing this again?_ The man nodded and brought John to the far corner of the shop where an entire wall was covered in carefully hung displays. “The top is white the bottoms are black. The shoes are red.”

They went through several different samples, a process that went much faster after John pointed out a mannequin that was dressed in a sleeveless top. The assistant draped their new model so that John could see how the garment would look when worn, and finally, he settled on a sheer but tightly woven one that had delicate branching patterns worked into it. It was made of a metallic appearing thread so that it shimmered in an understated way, it was perfectly rectangular, apparently would work with a number of colour combinations, and so forth. John watched attentively as he was quickly shown a few different ways it could be used. After he paid for it, John took the surprisingly small box it was in and returned to 221 B Baker street to hide it away.

John checked every few days to see if the boxes had moved but they never did. Nervously, John settled back into life at the flat, concentrating on his work, and the Work, always at the ready to loan Sherlock whatever assistance he required. In between, John made sure the flat was tidy enough, and that nothing rotting in the fridge was meant to be that way, that their med kit in the bathroom was always fully stocked or that at least, a replenishment list was being made, and that all their bills were taken care of. It gave him a sense of order and completion to do these things, and it was a good thing it did because Sherlock didn’t care a bit for any of it. Sherlock was willing to hire a cleaner before doing it himself and wasn’t beyond going out and buying new clothing before resorting to doing the laundry. The man owned an unimaginable amount of pants, which told John more than he was comfortable admitting he knew.

It was nearly Christmas. Every shift, he enjoyed a complement of home-baked treats from various co-workers, contributing his own sadly deformed but well-intentioned chocolate cookies to the offerings. He began to walk back to Baker Street in order to keep his weight down a tad. On his way home one night, he came across a front window display where the mannequin was wearing a loose-fitting and broad-hooded coat that was thick with brown and black faux-fur lining. John couldn’t resist, purchasing it with the last of his spare holiday money, and even paying to have it wrapped as a gift. In his greatest dare ever, John managed to squeeze the last box into the bottom of Sherlock’s wardrobe, now stuffed blatantly full of new things, all while Sherlock was in the shower. John was out of his room and into the kitchen just as the water was turned off. When the detective emerged a short-while later wearing a clean suit and demanding tea, he didn’t say a word about what was in his wardrobe.

John was happy. It was so good to be home with Sherlock, to have a life with Sherlock. It was very nearly perfect, and if they never crossed the line into being more, then so be it. If this was what he got, then he was already a lucky man. Slowly, day by day, John relaxed and began to pay attention to things that weren’t in small boxes. He was at the clinic when a messenger arrived bearing a garment bag. Inside, John found a gorgeous black suit and a note that simply had an address and a time in Sherlock’s handwriting. “Don’t be late, and don’t argue.” John snorted with laughter but once again, just did as he was told.

Later that evening, after cleaning himself up in the showers at the hospital, John arrived at the address with only a few minutes to spare. The suit fit him better than anything he’d ever worn, and silently, to himself, John admitted that he looked rather dapper. He was glad of it because the restaurant was intimidating. It was incredibly posh, so he approached the concierge uncertainly, “Doctor John Watson.”

“Doctor Watson, yes, your party has just been seated. Drinks are already on the way. If you’ll just follow me?” The man was shorter than John but confidently threaded his way through the large crowded room until they were at a private table. John’s mouth was dry, and his throat closed off so tight he almost couldn’t greet his dining companion, “Sherlock.”

Sherlock was sitting at the table, his long fingers nervously tugging at the corner of the tablecloth. The concierge left John there and the doctor couldn’t make himself move. He was too busy drinking in the sight of Sherlock sitting there wearing all the things that John had purchased for him, the pashmina, the blouse, the skirt, and _oh, bloody hell,_ the stockings, which meant that Sherlock was also wearing the garter and possibly even the very tiny panties that went with them. John stared at Sherlock’s feet, and his knees weakened. It was all he could do to remain upright instead of sinking to the floor in order to absolutely worship the person in front of him. Sherlock’s hair was much fluffier than normal, his curls teased out into a gentle cloud. His lips were a tiny bit pinker, and his eyes ever so subtly highlighted and outlined. His cheeks were artfully redder, and John could see that Sherlock had even put mascara on, his lashes fanning above his cheeks distinctively as he looked down into his lap unfeigned bashfulness, “John.”

“You look incredible.” John was in a daze. Without thinking it through, he leaned over and pressed a kiss to Sherlock’s carefully powdered cheek, “Just perfect.”

“Thank you, John.” Sherlock’s cheeks were redder than his blusher could be credited for now and John’s heart began thumping. _Sherlock was shy!_ Right at that moment, he realized how much he absolutely adored his friend. Sherlock was so amazing, so fantastic, so captivating, John couldn’t tear his eyes off of him, “You can sit if you’re staying.”

“Oh, I’m staying.” John sat himself down, his eyes still fixed on Sherlock. “I wouldn’t leave for anything in the world.”

Sherlock managed to look up at John for only a moment before cutting his eyes away once more, “You’re not embarrassed?”

“What? Why would I be?” _Unless people could see his burgeoning erection, John had absolutely nothing to be embarrassed about. He was lucky. So lucky. So incredibly lucky. He was the luckiest man in the world right now._

“You’re out for dinner with a man wearing women’s clothing. No one is ever going to look at me and mistake me for female.” Sherlock sounded faintly bitter.

“So? I don’t think you look like a woman, you just look _beautiful_ , like always. I’m just enjoying seeing so much…skin.” _Sherlock_ _’s arms were strong and defined. John wanted to bite into his biceps. He wanted to push up that blouse and kiss across Sherlock_ _’s flat stomach and chest. He wanted to hike up that tight skirt to spread Sherlock_ _’s thighs wide_. “You are _breath-taking_.”

Sherlock was biting his lower lip now, his cheeks aflame. “I could say the same.” Sherlock managed to flicker a glance at John, and in that moment, John saw all the passion and desire that Sherlock felt for him. It made him grin. Leaning forward, John held out his hand. _This had been a long time coming, if this wasn_ _’t the time, the right time would never come._ Cautiously, Sherlock extended his own hand and allowed John to hold it, “Thank you for all the gifts.”

“I think I gave them to myself because I feel like it’s already Christmas. We’re going to go out all the time if it means I get to see you like this more often.” John meant it. _He_ _’d take Sherlock out every single night if he_ _’d let him. He_ _’d buy every pretty thing in London if Sherlock wanted to wear them_. He’d do anything he had to in order to keep that look on his beloved’s face. _His beloved_. John wasn’t going to hide the truth from himself any longer. He was head over heels IN LOVE with Sherlock Holmes, and tonight, he was going to let his man know it. “This is already the most perfect romantic date I have ever been on.”

Sherlock couldn’t seem to look directly at John but even with his face down, he looked pleased. John felt like puffing his chest out a bit simply because he’d made Sherlock happy. That made him feel proud and a bit more confident. It seemed to have a similar effect on Sherlock who finally managed to look at John steadily, “I feel the same way.” _Sherlock was concurring that it was a date, a romantic one!_ John was filled with glee.

A server came to take their order, but John had no clue what was even on the menu. He didn’t care, “Can you light our candle, please, and bring us a bottle of wine, something special.”

Sherlock placed the order, rattling off a list of items, then, answering the server’s questions regarding their preferences for each dish. John wasn’t paying attention. “I wasn’t sure you’d like everything.”

Sherlock squeezed John’s hand reassuringly, “I was very moved by every article. It’s clear that you spent a great deal of time selecting each thing, and invested a good deal of thought as well as energy in making your choices. The entire ensemble is a testimonial, a declaration perhaps?”

“Sort of,” John saw a bit of light die in Sherlock’s eyes and hastened to explain. “I want you to be as happy as I can make you. I want you to be free with me. If you want to do something or know something or experience something, I want to help make that happen.” He hesitated at first but then confessed, “You knew I was checking the flat for illegal drugs. I saw the shoes and they got me thinking about the kinds of things _you_ might want to do that you don’t let yourself do. That didn’t strike me as being very fair, I want you to keep exploring your interests. If pretty clothing is something you want to see about, then I want to support that. I think you look very lovely right now, but honestly, I think you look lovely when you wear one of your fine suits, or even when you slouch around the flat wearing your moth-eaten pyjamas.”

“They’re not _moth-eaten!_ That was an acid-related accident. I’ve had those pyjamas since my first round at uni, they’re practically part of my family!” John smiled all the way through Sherlock’s protests. Sherlock regained control of his temper, realizing that John was sincere and that he really did like how Sherlock looked, no matter what he was wearing.

“And you looked delicious in them, that’s what I’m saying.” John squeezed Sherlock’s fingers gently, “I want this, Sherlock. I want to be with you, all the way with you, and I want it to be for as long as possible. You are the most amazing person in the world, there’s no one like you at all. Just knowing I’m your friend is enough to fill me with such happiness but knowing I might be able to be more fills me with such hope.” John decided to lay it all out right there, “Be with me, Sherlock, I love you more than I’ve ever loved anyone before, and I want to be with you _if_ you want me back. If you don’t, then that will be completely fine. I’ll be your best friend, regardless.”

Sherlock’s eyes were filled with a new kind of intensity, one made up of feelings that John sincerely hoped he wasn’t misinterpreting. “If that’s the case,” Sherlock whispered softly, “Then perhaps you won’t mind if I…”

Sherlock leaned closer but then, so did John. Their mouths met a bit awkwardly at first but they soon had themselves sorted, their first kiss a brief but meaningful one, interrupted due to the arrival of their order. John felt impatient at first, but then, he realized that there was nothing to rush home for. Every minute was to be enjoyed, lingered over, and savoured, much like their meal. Sherlock was an engaging date, easily maintaining his half of the conversation between lazy bites of food. Both men were just happy to be out together, finally free to be open with one another. John found the entire evening to be one filled with delightful conversation, a lot of laughter, and an incredible degree of ease an compatibility.

When it was time to leave, John absently paid for their meal while gazing up at his very significant other. Sherlock was so tall in his heels but John found every long lean inch to be enticing and hard-to-resist. They strolled out of the restaurant after John helped Sherlock into his long fur cloak, “Cab though, I think.” They looked at Sherlock’s feet ruefully. His lovely fancy heels were gorgeous but there was no way he could keep his pretty toes from freezing, not in the winter chill. Still, John enjoyed helping Sherlock into the taxi, enjoying how his legs looked as he demurely draped the corner of his cloak over them after he was seated, and how he held his knees genteelly together.

The trip home was silent but blissful. John escorted Sherlock out of the taxi and through their front door. “I noticed you’ve been following a rather antiquated courting ritual.” Sherlock was standing very close to John in the foyer of their rooms. He was still wearing the long cloak and his stocking clad calves were barely exposed. John longed to follow the sheer fabric upward to verify if Sherlock had worn everything John had given him. “Do we count this as our first date or our thousandth?” Sherlock bit his bottom lip for a moment, “Tonight felt like so many other nights with you, John, but at the same time, I’ve never had an evening like this, not ever.”

John listened to Sherlock but could barely retain eye-contact. “Tonight was everything I knew it could be. You’re always amazing, Sherlock. Everything about you is just…amazing.” John knew he was repeating himself but he was beginning to suffer a bit in the pants region. Sherlock smelled lovely, and now that they were someplace familiar, John was hoping that Sherlock’s words meant what he thought they’d meant. “I have to confess that I don’t want to count this as our first date because that would mean…”

“Two more dates before you’re willing to…”

“Take you to bed. I don’t want to wait, Sherlock. I’ve been waiting years already. You don’t owe me anything, I don’t mean that. I don’t expect anything, but if…”

They kept cutting each other off but John didn’t mind, especially when Sherlock’s next words were, “Take me to bed, John. It’s been years, I’ve been waiting years, and I don’t want to wait one more night.”

They rushed up the stairs, Sherlock nearly dragging John by his hand. The detective only stumbled on his heels once, but John was right there to keep him steady. Laughing softly with one another, Sherlock led John right to his bedroom where a neatly made bed and a less-than-discreet and a rather large container of lubricant awaited them, “Did you really think I was that sure of a bet?” John faked his outrage.

Sherlock grinned, the fondness in his eyes in no way overshadowing the deep love also present in his gaze. “Of course not, John Watson, I only prepared for every possible contingency and hoped for the best.”

John smiled back. “Well, kick off those incredible shoes and let me try to kiss you.” Sherlock laughed but also bent over, carefully removing his beautiful footwear, “Why did you buy them?”

“Whimsy, at first. Uncle Rudy always had a flair for outrageous clothing. I liked lovely things too, but it seemed too much like copying his style to follow my inclinations. I did love Uncle Rudy, but he was one-of-a-kind, I didn’t want to be a substitute for him in my family’s eyes. Then, after several years of thinking it over, I realized I just liked them. I liked the idea of how I would look in clothing like this, how it would feel, how it would make other’s look at me. Overall, it was positive but I never really went further than thinking about it. Uncle Rudy was very fond of this sort of thing. I saw them in a store and just…I just did it.”

John nodded with understanding, “I get it, I do. You’re one-of-a-kind too Sherlock. You are so much more than other people. This is just one of your many parts, and I love you for all of them.”

Sherlock looked up from his half crouch, “Say that again.”

“I love you.” Sherlock fell to his knees in front of John, his lovely shoes in one hand. He set them aside carefully before looking up at John, “Sherlock?”

“I have other thoughts, about other things, John Watson.” Sherlock’s gaze wandered downward. “I’ve lain in that very bed on so many nights, wanting to do so many things with you, to you.” He leaned forward and inhaled deeply, “Remember the first time you met Sally Donovan.”

“Don’t bring them up now! That’s kind of a mood killer.”

“I told her about the state of her knees. Sometimes I wonder if I would ever get the chance to find out what the state of my knees would be.” Sherlock pressed his face slowly against John’s rapidly firming cock, “Shall we find out?”

“I’d like to kiss you first if that’s all right?” John found himself being pushed back so that he landed with a thump, bum first, right on the edge of Sherlock’s bed. He grinned crookedly as Sherlock crawled the pace or so forward that he needed in order to reach John’s flies. “Kiss me, Sherlock.”

Sherlock sat back on his heels between John’s spread thighs and looked up. John bent down, his lips meeting Sherlock’s in a hungry kiss that lasted forever. They pawed at each other, suddenly eager to feel the bareness of each other’s flesh, to kiss, to taste, to touch. John peeled away each delicate item from Sherlock’s lean pale body, exposing him one region at a time until his lover was kneeling there with only the stockings remaining. Sherlock’s cock was hard, bobbing in front of him, but the detective ignored it in favour of John’s. “So warm.”

Sherlock was slowly licking and mouthing it, and it was making John crazy. Sherlock was indulging in a leisurely slow suck but John found that he’d already reached his limit for patience, “I need to fuck you. Please, please my love, let me have you?”

Sherlock’s body shuddered as his eyes grew dark, “Finally.” Sherlock climbed onto John’s lap and pushed against him until his back was against the mattress. It was fast, rough, messy, and thrilling. Sherlock made a mess with the lubricant, but John didn’t care because one finger at a time, he got to stretch Sherlock’s open. Sherlock kept fisting John’s cock, sometimes too roughly, but both men were too impatient to wait for gentleness or to even try to go slow. Sherlock made John hold his cock still as he sat upon it. They gasped together as Sherlock worked John’s cockhead in, the taller man groaning with some discomfort as he rushed through the beginning, “So long, been waiting so long. It’s everything I dreamed it would be.”

John was surprised at how little time it took before Sherlock was undulating shamelessly above him, his head thrown back, his hands planted on John’s chest to brace himself. John slicked his hand quickly and began to stroke Sherlock’s erection. This wasn’t going to last long, not tonight, not after all this time. Sherlock already looked wrecked, his hips trembling as his body rocked downward with increasing roughness. When John began to thrust back, Sherlock let out a short deep groan. He got louder the hard John went, finally covering his mouth with his hand to stifle his shouts as John slammed upwards as hard as he could. Sherlock suddenly went rigid, and John felt his cock throb hard as a thick spray of semen erupted from Sherlock’s cock in one shocking burst. Several pulses of come followed it, all running over John’s fingers. He kept his other hand on Sherlock’s hip as he began to thrust faster, chasing his own orgasm. “My beautiful John, how I love you.” Sherlock’s voice was dreamy and sated, and it made John’s eyes cross unbecomingly when he peaked suddenly. He squeezed them shut and tried not to gulp at the air as his body quaked with the intensity of his response to Sherlock. It was like no other orgasm he’d ever had, powerful, universal, and so incredibly perfect that John finally understood what it meant to see stars. He was adrift in a universe filled with pleasure.

After a long while, Sherlock stirred a tiny bit, “Thanks for the gifts, John.”

“Thanks for letting me take them off of you.” They giggled weakly before drifting off, too tired and boneless to bother trying to clean up or even cover up. Those were concerns for a later time. Both men fell asleep side-by-side, covered in come, and happier for it. As far as either was concerned, this was already the best holiday they’d ever had.

 


End file.
